


smoke a little tree, be my best friend

by pelvicbones



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Drug Dealer! John Murphy, F/M, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Drinking, everyone smokes the gange, natasha lyonne voice: cock-a-roach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelvicbones/pseuds/pelvicbones
Summary: Sometimes, when they’re all stoned, Murphy feels like meeting Bellamy that day on the swings was the best thing that has ever happened in his fucking pathetic, boring life.When he tells Bellamy that, so fucked up that he thinks he sees his dad in the corner of his eye, Bellamy just smiles sadly as he awkwardly pats Murphy’s shoulder and says, “You’re one of us now, dude.”
Relationships: Bellamy Blake & John Murphy, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Clarke Griffin & John Murphy, John Murphy/Raven Reyes
Comments: 9
Kudos: 76





	smoke a little tree, be my best friend

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing ages ago this while day buzzed, craving a joint, and listening to netherfriends whom the title (from the song “smoke a little tree”) and lyrics below (“i just wanna smoke weed all the time”) belong to. i legitimately was starting to abandon faith i would ever finish it, but it’s now the longest fic i’ve ever written!! congrats to me!  
> trigger warning for grooming behavior and some sketchy interactions.  
> ages are all over the fucking place in this fic, but bellamy and crew are three years older than murphy, clarke a year older, and raven two years older. wick is an older asshole bc it’s already canon.  
> shout out to emori, who i have grown to love, but i'm deep into the murven ship atm. sry babe!
> 
> finally, there’s a very obvious movie reference in here, so drop it in the comments if you catch it.

* * *

_i just wanna smoke weed all the time /_

_  
_ _i don't wanna do anything else with my life /_

_  
_ _i just wanna fall in love all the time_

/

Murphy smokes weed for the first time when he’s thirteen. He’s half perched on a swing and kicking dirt because it’s been a fucking year and a day since his dad died and there’s still no place on Earth that feels right. (And there’s the thing he doesn’t want to admit to anyone: He still doesn’t know how to cope. It still feels like there’s blood constantly blooming through his shirt.) He’s kicking so hard that he digs his own hole when someone clears their throat to get his attention. It’s a high schooler that he recognizes from all the girls at school giggling as they scroll through his sparse social media posts. He’s smiling meekly, hands in his pockets.

“I could get in so much shit if you tell anyone about this, dude,” he says, “But you look like you may need this.”

He pulls out a roach sealed in a plastic bag from his pocket. Murphy blinks for a second, processing the advice from assemblies (you know the ones: “ _don’t do drugs or you’ll die_ ” etc., etc., fucking etc.), before reaching out and taking the bag.

“Thanks, man,” Murphy mumbles. “Appreciate it.”

The high schooler half-smiles at that, “It’s cool.”

And, although he has his very own roach, Murphy ends up smoking a joint with the high schooler – _Bellamy_ – right there in the empty park, hands both knotted around their own swing chains as they stare at the sky.

Bellamy doesn’t say anything stupid, but Murphy does – talks about how the clouds are metaphors or something else equally dumb. Bellamy just listens, laughs when he wants to. Murphy feels semi-normal for the first time since his dad died.

Decides, this is nice.

/

It’s kind of funny, being adopted into a friend group when you’re so much younger than the rest of them, but Murphy has always been a secret chameleon (or so his dad used to say, teasingly) and easily slots himself in without any complaints. Murphy kind of hates how at home he feels with Bellamy and his friends on Miller’s couch hotboxing the basement with Miller’s mom’s snacks lined up on the table in the corner. It feels strange to feel at ease when he asks if Miller’s mom knows what they’re up to. Bellamy breezily waves him off, claiming she’s chill, and it stings Murphy to think that his mom doesn’t even look at him most days. Miller has a mom that swats her hands around her nose when she comes down to ask them if they need anything, eyes rolling while she laughs, and Murphy has a mom that looks past his shoulder when she asks him if he got the mail from the mailbox.

At the same time, he can’t help but feel fucking euphoric to just be a part of _something_ – to have inside jokes with people, to be known as the young cynic in the group. Sometimes, when they’re all stoned, Murphy feels like meeting Bellamy that day on the swings was the best thing that has ever happened in his fucking pathetic, boring life.

When he tells Bellamy that, so fucked up that he thinks he sees his dad in the corner of his eye, Bellamy just smiles sadly as he awkwardly pats Murphy’s shoulder and says, “You’re one of us now, dude.” 

/

After a year of the same old shit, Murphy stops smoking as much as his friends. Sure, when he’s tense and verging on sociopathic behavior, he’ll take a few hits to help numb everything, to laugh through his ache and trade conspiracy stories with Miller’s boyfriend, Bryan. It’s just that he starts to feel fucking _bored_ with it all when he’s not feeling like an open wound. He still likes hanging out with his friends, still likes listening to their stupid rants and seeing Bellamy crawl to the television screen in hopes he can touch the trees featured on Planet Earth, but he just doesn’t feel like the high he reaches with smoking weed is enough.

And then, the world changes again. One day, Bryan’s waiting for him outside school, one knee casually draped over his leg. Murphy used to hate how his friends would get out half an hour earlier than him but Murphy is headed to high school next year and, honestly, he can’t give a damn anymore. At this point, he’s just crossing off the days on his calendar until he’s a step closer to freedom. Bryan smiles when he catches Murphy’s eye, rising to slap him on the back and walk toward his car. It’s nothing new, but, once they’re strapped in, Bryan turns to him and smirks, “How do you feel about meeting our elusive dealer?”

Murphy has begged them for ages, even when he’s stopped smoking as much, to give him inside access - as if it’s a privilege to know who’s supplying. But, despite that he was the one to even give him weed in the first place, Bellamy has always been insistent that Murphy only gets to smoke when they all hang out. Murphy is convinced the concern is based on the fact that Murphy is only two years older than Bellamy’s little sister and Bellamy can’t help but feel shitty about providing Murphy with weed in the first place. (“I thought you were, like, at least fourteen, dude,” Bellamy confesses once, laughing.)

So, when Bryan offers, Murphy puts his feet on the dashboard even though it’s Bryan’s pet peeve and drawls, “Whatever.”

Bryan laughs, ignores Murphy’s bullshit, and drives.

They arrive at a completely innocuous house. There’s a porch with a swing, a sign that exudes suburban ideals (“ _home is where you’re happy_ ”), and a mailbox in the shape of a cow. Murphy looks at Bryan and dryly remarks, “Ha-fucking-ha, good one.”

Bryan only smirks back before sliding out the door, “We’ve reached our destination.”

After Bryan knocks at the door and they wait, it hits Murphy that he’s been programmed to think all dealers are sketchy weirdos who don’t live in regular houses.

A very normal person answers the door, raking his hands through his hair, “Ugh, Bryan. Can you give me a heads up like a normal person next time?”

Bryan smiles one of his saccharine smiles, “You don’t like surprise visits from one of your favorite customers, Wick?”

Wick just groans, “Come in, you little fucker.” He nods at Murphy, “Who is this?”

Bryan pulls in Murphy tight, “Our latest protegee.”

Wick rolls his eyes, sizes Murphy up (he doesn’t know how to act under a body scan, just stands still like he’s in the airport TSA), before opening the door further and extending his hand in invitation.

The inside is homier than the outside – full of knick-knacks and more “inspirational” bullshit quotes line the walls. Wick grabs an ounce, Bryan hands over cash, and they should be done. Bryan starts walking out, but Wick grabs at Murphy’s arm before he can follow. Bryan turns, cursing under his breath in fear until Wick smiles.

“Hey, kid. I have a proposition,” Wick states to the air, licking chapped lips, eyes still heavy on Murphy.

And that’s how, at age fourteen, John Murphy starts dealing.

/

Bellamy only finds out when Murphy is the one to bring the quarter to the next hang out. When he hands Murphy his share, Bellamy sighs a sigh that oozes disappointment, made even more clear by the look he gives Murphy across the room twenty minutes later.

Murphy just looks away, takes another drag from his own joint, and fondles the money in his back pocket. The brush of his fingertips over the bills only enhances the high he gave into – with the money, he’s fucking _floating_.

/

In his first year of dealing, Murphy learns fast that it’s good that he rarely samples his products, that he isn’t just another customer. At fifteen, Wick trusts him more than his other dealers, even thinks of him as his mentee because Wick is relatively straight-edge if you disregard his affinity for drinking beer at noon. (Which Murphy _does_ , despite his disdain whenever his mom casually remarks “it’s five o’clock somewhere” before gulping down a glass of wine _._ He kind of looks up to Wick for seeing something in him that no one else does – an entrepreneur who will sink his teeth into whatever he has to for the benefits. It’s nice to be noticed by an adult.)

He deals by the dumpsters outside the high school’s cafeteria. It’s easy enough and it’s not like he’s selling anything really fucked up. Most of his clientele are hoping to score weed – occasionally, some xannies. Wick has older guys in charge of the heavier shit, trying to make sure he keeps his rookies relatively sheltered from the reality of the business.

No one really comes out to his space unless they’re looking for product, so when he hears sniffling one day, he jerks to alertness. He looks around him and then sees a strap of a bag from behind one of the dumpsters to his left. Walks over cautiously, like he’s about to stupidly walk into some elaborate police sting, only to find a girl sitting with her head between her knees, crying. He can’t help but pity her (an emotion he _never_ lets himself feel) and asks, almost softly, “Hey, you good?”

She raises her head, eyes still red, and hits him with the meanest glare he’s ever been privy to, hissing, “Back the fuck off, rando.”

(The only thought in his head: she’s _hot_ – even if she is crying.)

He holds his hands up, “Didn’t mean to intrude on whatever _this_ ,” gesturing at her fetal position, “is.” He adds, almost bitingly, “However, this is my place of business, so if you can cry somewhere else, I’d appreciate it.”

She just stares at him for a while before starting to laugh almost hysterically. He stays still, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Jesus,” she says, still laughing, wiping her tears away. She rises off her feet to stand and wipes imaginary dirt from her pants, “Thanks for that.”

He feels like he finally understands whiplash. Furrows his brows and says, awkwardly, “You’re _welcome_?”

She just leans her head back, blinking out the tears rapidly, cracks her neck, and then rolls her head back to meet his gaze. Extends her hand to him. He meets it after a moment of hesitation.

“Raven Reyes,” she says, shaking firmly. “Recently cheated on. Usually emotionally absent. What do you have?”

He loses all ability to speak for a few seconds, then returns back to his body, cracks his knuckles to shrink back to his façade. Smirks, “What do you want?”

/

Raven introduces him to a whole new customer base he had never been able to tap into before – cool high-achievers. It’s a market that Wick has been badgering him about since the beginning, but Murphy kept rolling his eyes, claiming that they only drank wine coolers and Mike’s Hard. But, then, Clarke Griffin, president of the student council, finds him in the hallway and exclaims, “Oh, thank fucking _god,_ I finally found you.”

He finds out Clarke is much cooler than he ever thought when she tips him a smile as he hands her an eighth and a Ziploc of Adderall.

“You are a _life_ saver,” she exclaims, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Raven told me you were good for it, but I was worried you were going to, like, immediately dismiss me.”

He tries to stay as stoic as always as she pulls away, but gives her his most genuine half-smile that always comes off as douchey, “No problem, princess.”

She looks at him like she’s trying to dissect him for a moment, trying to get through the cracks, and, then, fucking _beams_. He feels itchy like she’s just cracked his code or something.

“You should definitely come to my party next weekend,” she says, pressing a finger into his shoulder.

He would’ve assumed she was drunk if she were anyone else, but he can see her thinking the way he thinks. (A brief thought hits him: _maybe they’re kindred spirits_.)

Noticing his hesitation, her mouth slopes into a smirk, “Think of all the rich bitches you can swindle.”

So, Murphy kind of loves Clarke (in the most platonic way) from their first interaction. Loves her even more when he’s a hundred bucks richer within the first hour of her party. At this point, Clarke’s dancing, all loose limbs and inhibition, but gives him a smug acknowledgment when she catches him in an exchange. He’s nodding goodbye to his latest customer when hears a voice whisper into his ear, “Boo.”

If he flinches, Raven doesn’t notice. She’s all bright, drunk eyes, gripping her Solo cup tight. Murphy can’t help but notice that she looks _amazing_ , tight leather pants and midriff exposed by a crop top. She observes his appraisal and smiles.

“So, is this all business,” she starts, twining her hands around his neck, “or do you want to dance with me?”

If Murphy doesn’t dance with her, he’s pretty sure he’ll regret it for the rest of his life. He swallows, licks his lips (he doesn’t miss her looking at his tongue as he does it), and leads her to the crowd. She mostly dances around him, dragging Clarke across the room, and they flicker around him. Raven keeps meeting his eyes as she drops low to the ground and he’s almost one-hundred percent sure she doesn’t perform like this for just anyone.

Murphy didn’t realize how much he stereotyped this crowd until Raven leads him away from the crowd, babbling on about how fucked up her life is. He’s listening, sure, but he’s also looking at her and realizing that he’s always thought of people like her as being superior to him. But Raven’s candidly telling him about her fucked up mom like it’s no big deal, how her boyfriend carried on an entirely separate relationship with someone from his school, how there’s a chance she’ll develop a condition that causes her to lose all feeling in a leg because, apparently, her genes suck. She’s drunk, yeah, but there’s a sense of honesty to her that he thinks would be there without even drinking anything.

Still, he doesn’t kiss her the whole night even though it’s clear she wants him to. Bellamy’s voice echoes through his brain, like a goddamn moral conscience. She huffs when she really lays it on thick to no avail but gets over it when he offers her a joint free of charge.

She calls over her friends and they smoke, chat about nerdy shit. He leans back, eyes locked on her as she takes a deep drag and blows out smoke rings. He pokes one and says, “Can’t let it die a virgin.”

Raven’s still on edge from him not kissing her, but laughs anyway.

/

He starts to become a staple at the parties Clarke throws and she and Raven take it upon themselves to tell other people to start inviting him. They basically insert him into their friend group – adding him to the group chat, telling him to bring whoever he wants to kick-backs or parties.

He brings Bellamy as back-up to one of Clarke’s smallish hangs and Murphy doesn’t think he’s ever seen people fall in love before until the moment Bellamy and Clarke lay eyes on each other. Murphy has tentatively agreed to be Clarke’s friend because they’re both assholes and she’s fun and always has a one-liner up her sleeve – but that exterior immediately dissipates when she first talks to Bellamy. Murphy’s seen her pick her targets with ease, seducing them in seconds before dragging them away from the masses, usually shooting him a wink before she disappears into a room. But, with Bellamy, she’s all shaky limbs and nervous smiles.

“Gross,” Raven snorts. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Clarke look like more of a disaster.”

He turns to see her pulling a heavy drink from a beer bottle. Smiles, almost. “What? Raven Reyes doesn’t believe in true love?”

“Absolutely not,” she says frankly. After a moment of thought, she adds, “And I hate romantic comedies.” She takes another swig to drive home the point, which makes him crack a rare smile.

“Touché,” he says, leaning against the wall next to her.

They watch Bellamy and Clarke dance around each other. Clarke almost spills her own drink on herself and Raven barks out a laugh. When Murphy turns to her to laugh too, he catches Raven’s face – head cocked, smile soft instead of mocking.

“Well,” she says, finally, as Bellamy moves Clarke out of the way from a guy who’s running for the bathroom, “I could be wrong.” Meets Murphy’s eyes and smirks, “The girl has been obsessed with him for years.”

He continues to watch them clinically, raises his beer to Raven when Bellamy’s hands are cupped around Clarke’s face, “To true love, then, I guess,” before he takes a sip.

Raven rolls her eyes but raises her own.

/

When Clarke and Bellamy get together, there’s a weird shift. Clarke still throws parties but stops buying from him. Starts acting like less of an asshole and prefers watching mayhem ensue in her house safely tucked in a corner, wrapped in Bellamy’s arms.

He guesses it’s whatever, but it seems to ignite something in Raven. She stops getting as fucked up at parties and starts to network for him. Introduces him to Monty and Jasper, who have been growing quality weed (not the shit he sells) in Monty’s greenhouse for a while and he finds himself agreeing to hang out and try it. She even scouts, eagle-eyed, for people who are looking a little bored so she can drag them over to him.

Murphy notices. Thanks her a million times over when she’s scored him a great customer – some asshole who Wick is always going off about because he throws these epic raves or whatever.

Raven just looks at him square in the eye, the look on her face making him shockingly keyed up, and says, “Murphy, shut up and do me.”

And then she’s kissing him, all teeth and tongue, pushing him into Clarke’s mom’s study. He goes down on her for twenty minutes and she makes the best noises the whole way through. It’s the sort of high that he’s been looking for, he thinks briefly, when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He awkwardly rises to his feet, hands shaking, and she pulls him in for a long kiss.

/

He goes to Wick’s to drop off the cash and is mildly surprised when Wick tells Murphy to sit, throwing him a beer. Wick puts the cash through his money counter and clucks in surprise. The little noise fills Murphy with an overwhelming sense of pride. He doesn’t feel appreciated, often.

Wick plops on the couch next to him when he’s done sorting out Murphy’s profit, plopping a pack of beers on the stained coffee table. When Wick offers him a hit off his bong, Murphy declines but grabs another beer. Wick takes a rip and Murphy looks around the room in appraisal, finishes his second beer in quick succession. Wick’s house already feels more like a home than Murphy’s does and he lets himself imagine a future for himself where he is exactly like Wick – independent, entrepreneurial, a role model.

Wick, red-eyed, starts to tell Murphy about his future plans for expanding business. Murphy just listens in interest, taking swigs from another bottle, nodding intently at Wick’s propositions. When Wick asks Murphy’s opinion on something, Murphy notices that Wick’s fingers are gently grazing Murphy’s ankle, dancing at the hem of his jeans. Murphy doesn’t move, just offers his perspective, and Wick grins wide.

“I knew you weren’t like the others, kid,” he says. His fingers retract from Murphy’s skin as he grabs another beer. Wick yawns, “It’s getting late, though, so you should probably head out.”

Murphy nods slowly, realizing he’s had more than a fair share of alcohol than he was planning, but smirks. “Guess I gotta keep up the grades, so I don’t lose the clientele.”

Wick raises his bottle, winking, “Spoken like a true businessman.”

/

Murphy starts to work harder at parties, pumping out more product than ever before. Raven still helps, but mostly whispers things into his ear about what she wants him to do to her. It’s distracting, obviously, but it also enhances his reputation that one of the hottest junior girls is interested in a lowly freshman, which, in turn, enhances his sales.

When he runs out of merchandise, he’ll finally allow himself to pay proper attention to Raven. Thumb under her jaw, kissing the pulse point on her throat, leading her into whatever room they can find that’s unoccupied. When he gets her alone, she lets herself slip off her apathetic demeanor and smiles against his touches. In the moments they spend in broom closets or home offices, she pushes herself close to him, thrumming with energy that bleeds into his veins until the morning after when he goes to Wick’s. 

Wick always shows his gratitude in physical contact - a pat on the shoulder, a rustle of Murphy’s hair. Murphy won’t consciously acknowledge it, but it feels like Wick has become a father figure to Murphy. He craves the attention from a parental figure, seeing as whenever he leaves Wick’s, his mother is often a half bottle deep of cheap Chardonnay and sleeping in front of the television. 

One morning, Wick hands him a baggie of E to distribute at some kid’s rave that night (“You’ve earned it, kid.”) and Murphy feels like he’s broken into the big leagues.

/

Clarke throws a party for the first time in ages after the end of the AP testing period and Murphy brings ecstasy without asking her. When people start tripping, jumping into Clarke’s pool with their clothes still on, Clarke charges over to him.

“What the fuck are you dealing tonight, John?” she demands.

His first name sounds foreign on her tongue. He realizes he didn’t think she knew it. The way she articulates it, like it’s an insult, fills him with ire. He smirks, “I thought I’d just bring a little more to the party this time.”

Clarke huffs, “Well, cut the crap. I don’t want whatever,” she gestures at him, “ _this_ is in my house.”

“Hypocritical, don’t you think, princess?” he inquires, jaw locking in anger. “Seeing as just last week you were buying Adderall from me for your fucking AP exams? Don’t think colleges would be fond of hearing about that, huh?”

Clarke blinks at him, mouth parting in shock. Murphy gears up for a fight, ready to fight the notorious Clarke Griffin. He’s never encountered her wrath personally, only seen it brim over in small doses when someone gets on her bad side, but he’s heard what she’s capable of and is geared to match it. But, instead of cutting words, Clarke gives him a long sigh, a sad smile.

Murphy catches Raven’s eye from across the room where she’s stopped her conversation with Wells, observing his interaction with Clarke. He looks away quickly back to Clarke, who tugs a piece of hair around her pinky in anxiety. She closes her eyes, exhales noisily, “You can stay tonight, but,” her voice drops in volume, “I don’t think you should come around anymore.”

After a moment to process, he sneers at her, “Happy doing business with you.”

She turns on her heel to walk over to Bellamy, who’s in an enthusiastic debate with Miller. Murphy watches as Clarke tugs on Bellamy’s sleeve and whispers in his ear. When Bellamy meets Murphy’s eyes, there’s only disappointment.

Murphy leaves shortly after that, not bothering to answer Raven’s inquisitions about what’s just happened. Just tugs on his jacket, shoves whatever he didn’t sell into the pockets, and takes off to Wick’s.

It’s late and he’s pulsing with anger, but he feels a need to explain why he didn’t sell out tonight. It’s only when Murphy’s knocking on Wick’s door that he registers that he’s never been here at night. The lights are dim in the living room and he can see the shadows cast by the glare of the television set. The sign in the front is barely visible. By the time Wick pads to the front door, rubbing his eyes, Murphy feels stupid for coming but brushes it off.

“Sorry,” he says, looking downward. “I just had a bad night. Selling. You know.”

Wick’s mouth quirks up in a corner, though, and opens the door for Murphy to walk inside, “It happens, kid.”

Murphy plops on the couch without invitation, dragging his hands over his face in frustration. He logs the grinder, bud, and quarter empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table and sighs as he admits, “Clarke Griffin got pissed at me for bringing the E.”

Wick grabs another bottle of whiskey from the dining room table and chuckles, “It’s fine, she’s just being a stuck up bitch. She’ll get over it and you’ll be back in her Majesty’s good graces soon.”

Murphy’s stomach recoils at Wick’s choice of words, but he forces himself to choke out a laugh, “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

Wick cracks open the new whiskey bottle, takes a long drag of it, and gestures at the one on the table for Murphy, grinning when Murphy quickly grabs it and takes a swig.

“Good choice, kid,” Wick says. “Don’t let bitches get to you.” He rolls his eyes, drinks again, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “They’re not worth the drama.”

Murphy takes a longer drink this time, tilting his head back to let the whiskey burn his throat. Wick cheers him on, laughing, and Murphy downs the rest of it just to make a point. “You’re absolutely fucking right,” he says, wiping the liquid dribbling down his chin. “Not fucking worth the drama.”

Wick hands Murphy his bottle to share between them, “But that Raven girl – you’re banging her, right?”

Murphy’s eyebrows shoot up slightly, blush blooming at the back of his neck. He rubs the redness nervously before answering, “Yeah, uhm, we’re hooking up.”

Wick takes the bottle from Murphy, leaning back into the sofa. Drinks and grins, “Man, she’s a dime, kid. Good job landing that.” Another swig, “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind getting a little bit of that. She’s got a great ass.”

Murphy wonders where Wick has seen her, mumbles, “Mhm, she does.”

“Wouldn’t give me the time of day, though,” Wick says, almost wistfully, handing the whiskey to Murphy. “Fucking tease.”

Murphy’s throat dries up, drinks to help it. Tries to change the subject, “So, I’m a little bit lighter than usual. Still have a bunch of tabs I couldn’t push tonight.”

Wick waves him off, “Seriously, it’s fine. Everyone has bad nights – even you.”

Murphy smiles a smile he means. It always feels alien when it happens, but he’s drunk and happier than usual here, just shooting the shit with Wick. “I’ll make sure to sell it soon.”

Wick smiles at him and Murphy feels comfortable, appreciated. It’s only when Wick hands him the bottle again with his left hand that Murphy feels the weight of Wick’s right hand heavy on his thigh, fingers tracing patterns into his jeans. Murphy coughs a little as he drinks, but Wick’s palm presses a little deeper, fingers spreading a little wider.

Murphy looks at the clock, feeling like the sound of the ticking is reverberating in the room, “Shit, it’s getting late.”

Wick retracts his hand slowly, looks at the clock as well, and grins a little too wolfishly for Murphy’s liking, “You’re right. Why don’t you just crash on the couch tonight? Beats walking home drunk to your house, right?”

Murphy nods, lips pulling out into a terse acceptance, “That would be great, man. Thanks.”

Wick grabs the bottle, stands up, and stretches tall enough that Murphy can see a sliver of Wick’s stomach, pale and taut. “Alright, then. Night, kid.”

Wick walks out of the room and Murphy sinks into the cushions of the couch, watching the muted, grainy picture of the television until he falls asleep. When he wakes up, he leaves the cash he made in an envelope on the dining room table, scrawling thanks, and makes his way home.

/

He’s outside by the dumpster smoking a joint to calm his nerves when Raven appears. She looks more pissed than usual by the look of how she’s holding her shoulders, eyebrows furrowed.

“I texted you on Sunday,” she says, slowly, tersely. “It’s Wednesday and you haven’t deigned me with a response.”

He raises an eyebrow, “I didn’t know I was obligated to, Reyes.” When she crosses her arms, he adds, “Didn’t think that our trysts entailed prompt replies and shit.” He drops his joint and crushes it under his boot, “I’ve been busy.”

She hollows her cheeks, purses her lips, “It doesn’t, but it’s a common courtesy. Especially considering I have no fucking clue what happened at Clarke’s on Saturday and you dipped without answering a single one of my questions.”

He shrugs, counters, “Ask Clarke if you’re so interested.”

“Oh, I did,” she says, anger starting to creep into her voice. “All she said is that you’re no longer welcome at her parties.” She steps closer, meeting his eyes, “Which isn’t an answer, which had me wondering what the fuck you could’ve done to piss her off enough to not give me a straight answer.”

He shrugs again. His fingers itch. “I couldn’t tell you what goes on in the Princess’s mind. She just got pissy and kicked me out of her life for no reason.”

Raven draws her crossed arms tighter, extenuating her cleavage, spits out, “Doesn’t sound like Clarke to do that without a _reason_ , Murphy.”

He unconsciously steps closer to her, “Guess she got tired of having her own personal dealer around.”

The proximity of their bodies makes Raven shift between her legs. Murphy smirks at the movement, pushes closer until she’s backed against the brick wall of the building.

“That’s not it,” she says crossly. But he sees her rage ebb when he leans a palm against the wall, centimeters from her neck. She swallows, “Seriously, dude, I just want to understand what’s going on.”

He leans into her space, right near the spot that gets her shivering every time he puts his mouth on it. “ _Dude_ ,” he says, leeringly, knee spreading her legs apart, “I think you know what’s going on.”

Her nose flares in irritation, but his free hand snakes in the small gap between them, thumb landing on the button of her jeans and she releases an unintended shaky exhale. Her arms finally uncross as she scrambles to regain control, but he bumps his hips into hers.

She bites her lip quickly, tries to say his name with conviction, but it comes out hazy and he knows, then, that he's caught her.

He unbuttons her jeans deftly, leans his forehead against hers, and slides his fingers into the waistband of underwear. He has her coming around his fingers in no time, a long moan against his shoulder blade. The noise pulsates in his chest and he feels his heart, the one he long been questioning is in existence, thrumb in response. He has the evidence now, but he doesn’t really know what to do with the particulars.

So, he slides the mask back on. Sucks his fingers clean while she’s catching her breath and leaves her with a smirk.

/

The unintended consequence of being dumped by Clarke as her resident dealer is that he doesn’t hear much from Bellamy anymore, which means he loses a friend and another person to provide invitations to parties. It’s not like Murphy is struggling, per se, but it’s certainly a strain on business that even Wick notices.

“The princess is still mad, I’m guessing,” Wick notes when the return is less than great.

Murphy shrugs, “Yeah, she’s not very keen on me at the moment.”

Wick nods in thought, “Well, I’m not one to suggest succumbing to a bitch’s whims, but summer’s coming up.” Wick stands a step closer, laying his hand on Murphy’s shoulder, thumb landing on the artery of his throat, “And we need that summer cash, don’t we?”

Murphy sharply inhales, nodding briskly. Wick pats his shoulder and turns to get another beer.

/

Murphy contemplates the best way to get to Clarke without completely surrendering. Going through Bellamy seems impractical at this point and Raven… Well, Raven. He still hasn’t quite come down from the high of their last encounter, hasn’t been able to process it. He left her _wtf_ _murphy_ text on read until he could come up with some counterattack, but there’s nothing that sounds right, nothing that his dumb heart has the audacity to say. Clarke’s friend Wells is a safe option, but Murphy decides to head the problem straight on.

So, after school, he waits by Clarke’s parking spot. She’s borrowing her mom’s shiny BMW today, which he knows will mean her janky Jeep is in the shop. He calculates that will mean she’ll probably be more on edge than usual. He’s right, of course, because even though she crosses the parking lot with Bellamy’s hand in hers, smiling, her good spirits wipe off her face at the sight of him leaning on her car.

“Princess,” Murphy drawls. “Just who I’ve been looking for.”

Bellamy’s mouth wrinkles in concern and Murphy wonders who the concern belongs to as Bellamy looks between the two of them.

“John,” Clarke drawls back. She squeezes Bellamy’s hand, looks up, mouth tightening into a grim line, “It’s okay, Bell. I’ll meet up with you later.”

Bellamy watches them both for a moment before kissing her goodbye and walking away.

When Clarke turns back to Murphy, she’s ready for war. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Murphy prepares to serve back with an equally snarky tone, then deflates, “Can I propose a truce?”

Clarke crosses her eyes and raises an eyebrow, but he sees her mouth curve upward just slightly, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I miss hanging out,” he shrugs. Her eyes soften a little, so he keeps going, “And despite that I enjoy our whole verbal sparring _thing_ , I don’t want to constantly be at each other’s throats. So, truce?”

Clarke pretends to contemplate, doing the whole finger to chin thing for the dramatic flair. Murphy rolls his eyes.

“Two conditions,” she says, finally. “Otherwise, I’m not sure if this friendship is going to work anymore.”

Murphy concedes, “Alright.”

“One,” she raises a finger, “No hard drugs ever again. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt and am _accepting_ your other merchandise, but that’s it.”

He nods, “The second?”

“Stop fucking around with Raven, okay?”

Murphy shrugs, “She seems to like fucking around, but… Fine, I guess?”

Clarke shakes her head in exasperation, “I mean, like, stop fucking around with her head, Murphy. She may be Queen of Mean and emotional detachedness, but she still has _feelings_.”

“Oookay,” Murphy draws out, suddenly uncomfortable. “I accept.”

Clarke extends her hand out to him, “Shake on the terms?”

They shake. Murphy smirks, “You’re a good friend, Griffin.”

She cocks her head at him, smiling, “I just care about a select few.” She withdraws her hand, squints at him as she tries to assess how he’ll react to her words, “You know I care about you too, right?”

He waves in her direction, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

She grins and offers him a ride home. When she starts the car, she adds, “Bellamy misses you too, if you care.”

He snorts. She sings off-key to the pop station he hates the whole ride home to get him to smile.

/

Murphy texts Raven when he gets home asking her if she’ll meet him by the swings where he first met Bellamy. She agrees after five minutes of three-dotted bubbles and arrives in full-psychological armor, standing in front of the swing he’s seated in.

He starts, “Hey.”

“Hello,” she says, icily. “What do you want?”

He hasn’t thought this portion through, honestly. Hasn’t figured in the factors or escape routes or the way his palms sweat or how he really wants to hold her hand for some stupid reason.

“My dad died,” he says.

Her eyes widen, shocked at his opener, “Uhm, I’m - I’m sorry? That’s what you’re supposed to say in this situation, right?”

Her shoulders tense at the vulnerability of their situation and he laughs, “Nah, I’m not asking for apologies. I just - I guess… You and I are kind of similar, you know?” He looks at her candidly, “Like no emotional bullshit gets in our way of living our lives the way we want and I guess I wanted to tell you that I’m that way because my dad died or something.”

“Oh,” she says, momentarily softening to the Raven behind closed doors. “Okay.” She slips into the swing next to him - the one that Bellamy once sat in. “Do you want to tell me more or…”

He shakes his head but then says something anyway. “He was just a really good dad. More than a dad, I guess. More like… he was like both my parents and my mom was just there.” He looks down as he kicks a hole in the dirt, “And now, I don’t really have anyone.”

Raven’s hand finds its way to his on his swing’s chain. When he looks at her, she’s smiling at him in earnest.

“This is the part of the movie where I say you have me,” she says.

He rolls his eyes but smiles the smile he saves for her.

/

Not a lot changes after that. In fact, things seem to revert back to where they were at the beginning of the year, except now Raven is even snider toward him in public and warmer in private. Clarke starts throwing more “shindigs” (as she has been recently calling them) since the school year has wrapped up and Bellamy has returned back to his life with lots of hair rubbing and obnoxious dad jokes. Murphy’s back to making good money. Life is good.

One night after a party at some kid’s house, Murphy takes a drunk Raven back to his house since it’s around the corner and she doesn’t want to go back to her own dysfunctional home. She promises to give him a ride in the morning to his dealer’s house, peppering him with wet kisses as she says it.

In the morning, they pick up her car and he directs her. When he tells her to pull over, she stills. Her spine is straight and her voice comes out raspier than when she woke up this morning, “You didn’t tell me you worked for Wick.”

He registers her bodily reaction with a quirked eyebrow, “Who else did you think I was working for?”

Raven bites her top lip, still swollen from his own teeth, “I –”

She stops speaking when she sees something over Murphy’s shoulder. When he turns, he sees Wick standing in his doorway, waving.

“Is something wrong?” Murphy asks, sliding his hand toward her.

She smiles tight-lipped, “No. Just… go in and I’ll wait for you here.”

Murphy tentatively unbuckles his seatbelt, says slowly, “I’ll be right out, okay?”

She bobs her head in affirmation and turns her attention to her phone. He sees that she's not really looking at anything on her screen when he opens the door.

When he reaches Wick, he’s met with a heavy clap on the back that ushers him inside. Wick gestures to the ever-present pack of beer on the dining room table, but it’s eleven o’clock and Murphy’s starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach thinking about Raven out in her car. He shakes his head and hands over the cash.

“Well, kid,” Wick says, licking his fingers to prep the wad for the counter, “Look at you. You have her driving you around.” He laughs a belly laugh, “Tamed her, didn’t you?”

“Dude,” Murphy says. He doesn’t know what else to say.

Wick grins, “I’m just fucking around, kid. I’m a _feminist_ , you know.” He grabs a beer and pops the top off, “I’m just surprised is all. She was so stuck-up when I tried to hit it.” Murphy tenses as Wick continues, “But, clearly, you got _something_ she wants.”

The weight of Wick’s hand on Murphy’s shoulder feels overbearing this time and, suddenly, bile bubbles into Murphy’s throat as he thinks of all of the times and ways that Wick has touched him, all the off-handed things he’s said before.

“Hah,” Murphy weakly says, “I guess.”

Wick doesn’t catch on, just keeps prattling on as he sits to count the money. Murphy feels like the room is too warm, too stuffy. He looks around the house for the first time and doesn’t see a vision of something he wants, but something sad and sobering.

“Well, can’t leave the lady hanging, can you?” Wick asks, breaking Murphy out of his trance. Extends his hand with Murphy’s share, “Here you go, kid.”

Murphy’s hand stills in the air when he goes to reach for the cash. “Uhm,” he swallows thickly, taking the money and settling it in his pocket slowly, “I’ve been meaning to run something by you.”

“Shoot,” Wick says, turning his attention back to his drink.

“I’ve been thinking about taking… a break. I guess.”

Wick turns around, eyes narrowing, “What?”

“Yeah,” Murphy scratches the back of his neck. “Just for a little bit. I thought it might be okay because I’ve been returning again and I’ve been doing this for a while. Just… a few weeks.”

Wick finishes off his beer and slams it on the table, “We don’t take _breaks_ in this line of business, kid. You’re either in or you’re out.”

Murphy stays silent, pushing his hands in his pockets, feeling the weight of the money there, fingers grazing over the tops of the bills. Opens his mouth, closes it, says, “Okay. I guess I’m out, then.”

Wick gives him a look of disgust and motions out the door, “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Before he leaves, Murphy takes a look back, catches Wick pop open another can, and shuts the door behind him tightly. When he gets back in the car with Raven, she lets out a quiet sigh, like she’d been holding in her breath since Murphy left.

“Everything okay?” she asks, tightly, not meeting his eyes.

He reaches over, finger drawing her jaw to meet his gaze, and gives her a wide smile that coerces one in return.

“Yeah,” he says fondly, pulling her in closer with his finger. “Now it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading y’all!! i’m finishing up a shit ton of stories that were gathering dust on my computer, so expect those soon. (aka hit that follow button 😎)


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